


A Bar So Dark We Forget Who We Are

by DesireeArmfeldt



Series: I Have to Go Out Tonight [2]
Category: due South
Genre: Angst, Clubbing, Established Relationship, M/M, POV Third Person Limited, Prompt Fic, Public Sex, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-07
Updated: 2012-06-07
Packaged: 2017-11-07 05:09:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/427209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesireeArmfeldt/pseuds/DesireeArmfeldt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for this ds-kinkmeme prompt from helens78: due South, F/K or F/V or F/K/V, voyeurism -- Kowalski, Vecchio, or both finds out that Fraser goes out to clubs to get things he doesn't think he can have in "real life". He/they watch, but don't let him find out that they're watching.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Bar So Dark We Forget Who We Are

**Author's Note:**

> I tagged this as "public sex" but it's more like "public making out."
> 
> This prompt was one of a trio of related prompts; thus, this is part 2 of a 3-part series.

“Okay, Kowalski,” shouts Ray Vecchio over the throb of the music and the deafening hum of too many male voices in an enclosed space.  “You brought me here, I’m here, you want to tell me why I’m here?”

 

Kowalski’s scanning the room, his hands jammed into his pockets, his lean body shimmying slightly in time to the music.  “You’ll see.  Don’t get your panties in a twist.”

 

Vecchio spends a little time yelling at the bartender until he manages to get his point across and get the guy to produce a couple of whiskey sours. 

 

“What I don’t understand is what the hell you were doing in here in the first place, to see whatever it was you saw that was so interesting,” he grumbles, shoving Kowalski’s drink in front of his face until Kowalski notices and takes it.  “’Cause this ain’t a place you come to shoot pool."

 

“If you’re asking me have I been running around picking up guys behind your back, the answer’s no,” says Kowalski.  “But thanks for trusting me.”

 

“I trust you,” protests Vecchio.  “All I asked was, _since_ I assume you weren’t here to get laid, what were you doing here?”

 

“You don’t think I could’ve come for the dancing?”  Kowalski’s got his wolf-grin on now, his eyes locked on Vecchio’s as he gyrates a couple of steps in place.  Vecchio feels the heat rising in his cheeks, and other more interesting places—and hell, maybe this is all just an elaborate set-up, one of Kowalski’s little  games to spice up their love-life.

 

If that’s the case, his job is not to fold too easily.  “You wanted dancing, you could’ve picked a place with better music.  Or at least, music that doesn’t burst your eardrums when you walk in the door.”

 

“Yeah, I’ll take you to the Crystal Palace next week, we can freak out the matrons,” says Kowalski, but his mouth’s running on autopilot now and his eyes are wandering again.  “Look, I used to come here sometimes way back when, but I haven’t been in like a million years.  Haven’t been clubbing at all since before I met you.  Well, there was this one time, with Fraser, but that  was for a case, which—okay, anyway, the point is, I got this tip last week, I followed it up, and there’s something here that you really, really need to see.”

 

So much for the sexy mood.  All of a sudden, Kowalski’s on edge again, and not in a good way, or even in his usual worked-up-about-stupid-stuff-and-needs-his-head-smacked kind of way.  This is the bad-shit’s-going-down kind of on edge.

 

“You wanted me to bring my gun, you should’ve said something,” Vecchio says in Kowalski’s ear.

 

“Nah, it’s not like that.”

 

“Well, good, but you want to tell me what you’re so—?”

 

“There.”  Kowalski points at the dancefloor.

 

Vecchio looks, but all he sees is a herd of thrashing, grinding bodies painted garish candy colors by the flashing lights.  He squints into the bright-and-dark mess, trying to figure out which of these men in their tight pants and bare arms and body-ink (yeah, he can see where this might’ve been Kowalski’s kind of place, once upon a time)—which of these guys Kowalski dragged him out here to—

 

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph.”  Vecchio’s jaw drops.

 

It’s Fraser.

 

Vecchio has to rub his eyes and blink a couple of times to convince himself this isn’t some kind of drunken hallucination (not that he’s had more than a swallow), or just some guy who’s a dead ringer for Fraser.  It’s not like he hasn’t seen Fraser out of uniform plenty of times, but Fraser out of uniform wears flannel shirts or sweats, not skin-tight black jeans and a wifebeater and a fucking _leather bracelet_.  And, okay, Vecchio’s seen Fraser dress up in weirder things than that—hell, he’s seen Fraser in _drag_.    He’s seen him grubby and messed up in various ways, too.  But he’s never seen Fraser with his hair in rumpled waves, muscular arms bare and shining with sweat, and dancing like he owns the room and every man in it. 

 

“That’s—”  His voice squeaks and he has to clear his throat.  “That’s really. . .him?”

 

“Yeah.”  Kowalski’s eyes are fixed on the dancefloor.  All the music’s gone out of his body now: he’s standing absolutely still, but he’s practically vibrating.

 

“He’s not—this isn’t for a case or something, is it?”

 

“Not that I know of.”

 

“Not even some crazy off-the-books do-gooding thing of Fraser’s?”

 

Kowalski shrugs.  “Think he would’ve said something to one of us.  Besides, he look like he’s on the job to you?”

 

“No, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything.  This is Benny we’re talking about.”

 

“I ain’t so sure it is,” says Kowalski.

 

“What are you talking about?  We just agreed—“

 

“No, I know, but what I mean is. . .”  Kowalski runs both hands through his hair.  “That’s Fraser, obviously, there aren’t two guys in the world who look like him.  But he’s not. . .being Fraser.”

 

“Right, that’s what I’m saying, this is some sort of undercover thing.” 

 

“Maybe.  Or maybe. . .”

 

“What?”

 

“Maybe this is what he’s really like.  When he’s being himself.  Maybe that guy we see every day is the cover.”

 

On the dancefloor, Fraser’s got himself a partner now: a short, slender, girly young man with straight, dark hair that falls over his shoulders when he moves slow, but flies crazily around when the boy cuts loose.  Sometimes that flying hair even whips Fraser across the face.  Fraser laughs when that happens.  The kid (jeez, he can’t be more than twenty-five at the outside) is bare-chested, and Fraser’s hands pull him in close and start roaming all over that smooth, sweat-slick skin.  The kid laughs and grinds his crotch up against Fraser’s and—

 

“No.  No way.  You’re talking crazy.  Benny’s not like that.  I mean. . .I mean, we’d know.  We’re his best friends.  We know him.”

 

Kowalski doesn’t answer, just chews on his lip.

 

“Benny wouldn’t lie to us like that.”

 

“Maybe not, but. . . I don’t know, Fraser keeps himself zipped up pretty tight, always has.  Even when. . .  I don’t know, maybe this is where he goes to. . .unzip.”

 

“Ugh, Stanley, shut your mouth!”

 

“Fuck’s sake, _Raymond,_ use your fucking eyes.  You cannot pretend he ain’t here for. . .”  But apparently Kowalski can’t spit out the word _sex_ in a sentence about Fraser, either.  He knocks back the rest of his drink, nearly chokes on it, and slams the glass down on the bar so hard Vecchio’s surprised it doesn’t break.

 

“Okay, okay, take it easy.”  Vecchio lays a hand on his lover’s arm, ready to duck if Kowalski swings at him.  But Kowalski doesn’t react at all.  “Look, yeah, okay, it sure looks like Benny—Fraser’s—here to have some fun, and it looks like he’s having it, and. . .and, okay, fine.  So. . .what’s the problem?” 

 

But there is a problem, there is something very very wrong with the universe if Benton Fraser is in a place like _this_ , dressed like _that_ , doing. . .what he’s doing.  It’s like watching your kid sister dress up like a tramp and make out with men ten years older than her, except that unlike Vecchio’s sisters, Benny’s never _wanted_ that kind of attention.  Sex, yeah, Vecchio knows that Fraser likes sex (he’s got a scar to prove it, and Fraser’s got another).  But even with the psycho bitch whose name Vecchio refuses to speak. . .Fraser never acted so free and easy and _sexy_ like he’s doing now.  Not in front of Vecchio, anyway.  Not in _public,_ for Christ’s sake.   

 

Fraser and his partner have moved on from dancing to standing there locked in each other’s arms, swaying in time to the music as they kiss the hell out of each other.  It’s the hottest fucking thing Vecchio’s seen outside of a porn movie in a while (or, be fair, his own bedroom, but looking at your own lover is not the same as _spectating_ ).  Fraser dips his head down and licks a careful path down his partner’s neck and along his shoulder, and Vecchio can’t help breathing a little faster.  He squirms uncomfortably, because yes, it’s hot, but it’s also weird and disturbing and makes him feel kind of sick, his guts all twisted up with the confusion of feelings.  Because it’s weird and wrong to think about your best friend having sex, but even more wrong to be watching him, _spying on him_ , never mind that Fraser’s put himself on public display here.  He doesn’t want Vecchio’s eyes on him, that’s clear, so what the hell kind of friend does that make Vecchio, getting all hot and bothered watching Fraser’s tongue and his hands and his smile and the bare line of his throat as he tips his head back. . .

 

Vecchio wrenches his eyes away and turns his back on the whole thing.  He looks over at Kowalski instead, and hey, now he realizes it’s been a while since he asked a question that Kowalski still hasn’t answered.  He wonders if Kowalski even heard him, because the guy is still staring at Fraser, and he looks. . .lost.  He’s turned in on himself, shoulders hunching a little like he’s trying to protect something, and Vecchio doesn’t have to check to know that his lover’s rock-hard in his pants: desire is painted all over Kowalski’s face, along with concern and hurt and anger. 

 

He touches Kowalski's arm again, but Kowalski doesn't seem to notice, so Vecchio clamps down tighter and gives him a shake.

 

“Hey, Kowalski, get your mind out of your pants,” he says, more roughly than he meant to.

 

Kowalski reacts, this time: he jerks his arm out of Vecchio’s grasp and shoves him away, hard.  But by the time Vecchio’s got his balance back, Kowalski’s slumping against the bar, his face in his hands.

 

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” he mumbles.  He looks up at Vecchio unhappily.  “Not mad at you.  I’m just an asshole.”

 

“Yeah, you are,” says Vecchio quietly, patting him on the shoulder.  “You mad at him?  Or what?”

 

“Yeah—no—fuck, I don’t know.”  Kowalski glances over his shoulder at the dancefloor, and gets stuck that way.  “I just. . .I wish he’d told us.  I don’t know what to do with that.”

 

Fraser’s lost his tank top.  The long-haired guy has his legs wrapped around Fraser’s waist, Fraser’s holding him in the air as he arches over backwards—Vecchio’s not sure if this is sex or ballet or _what_ , now, but half the people on the dance floor have stopped moving and are gathered around watching the show.

 

“We’ve got to get out of here,” says Vecchio.

 

Kowalski looks at him, a frown forming between his eyebrows.

 

“Before he sees us.  We can’t let him know.  What we know.”

 

“We don’t know shit,” says Kowalski.  Vecchio can barely hear him through the music.

 

He takes Kowalski by the chin and forces eye contact.

 

“He didn’t want us to know.  So we can’t let him find out.”

 

“Yeah,” says Kowalski.  “All right.  Yeah.”

 

But when Vecchio lets go of him, Kowalski turns back towards the dancefloor like there’s an invisible string pulling him.  Stands there hugging himself, watching Fraser sink to the floor with the lithe young man in his arms.  And Vecchio stands there next to him, not saying a word. 


End file.
